The Malbec Anarchists

Día 45-46: Crossing multiple sierras before tomfoolery at the wine tasting (199km)

Part of Chapter 6 Bipedal Therapy

Post #42

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Día 45 Cactus country

La Rioja is a province at the base of the Andes mountain range to the north of the regional cities of Mendoza and San Juan. It was named by Juan Ramirez de Velasco, a Spanish immigrant and native of the famous wine reigon of the same name in Spain.

Etymology

Locals argue that La Rioja was one of the first Argentinian regions to have vines planted in it, and Spanish settlers in the late 16th Century are widely credited with being the first to plant grapes here.

This has caused some animosity between the two regions. In 2011, the Argentinian province won a court case allowing it to continue to label its wines as 'La Rioja Argentina'. La Rioja Wine - wine-searcher.com¹

In one corner of La Rioja, nestled in protective mountains at 1700m above sea level is the Chañarmuyo Bodega y Casa de Huéspedes (winery and guest house). It’s been on our radar for a while as a bougie wine tasting option within walking distance of a reservoir campspot. Now that we find ourselves within 200km of those aromatic cellars, it's time to get pedalling.

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Back in Pagancillo, Jake has a new role. Hence forth, he shall be known as the Porridge Fairy. He’s up early, fluttering out of the van to heat avena² with chopped bananas and Jan; a nutritious breakfast before another long day on the road. There is no doubt this is a more sturdy morning meal than the bread and marmalade we’ve settled for in previous weeks.

At the morning shop, a girl appears on a scooter, pressing her dog’s front paws firmly onto the handlebars beneath her hands. He’s forced to mirror her upright pose and looks rather bemused about it. When he escapes and runs off down the road she shouts

“No! You can’t go home alone!” and scoots off determinedly after the fugitive.

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After a few days skirting, and at times dissecting the horizontal desert, we’re headed back to more spiky terrain. A local assures us that the dirt road out of town is the quickest way to the mountain pass. Its nice to ride offroad once more; it’s been almost exclusively tarmac since exiting the Araucanía region in Chile, way back on Día 28. As we rise into the foothills once more, the cactus multiply, splayed out across the slopes like the first crowds allowed back after the pandemic, oddly isolated in their hillside stadia.

“Are you selling empanadas?”

“No, but you see that car right up there, opposite that, there’s a house with a wide veranda. Knock on the door and tell them I sent you. They’ll sort you out.”

I set off on a wild pastry chase. No dice. Random instructions like these are becoming more common the more time we spend away from the big cities.

After lunch we push on towards Punto Alto at 2,000m. A couple of fake summits taunt us, one a scarecely believable zigzag road that wriggles over a vertical wall. A condor sweeps over Jake’s head, eyeing up his white torso. I wave frantically and try to point this out but he remains oblivious. Luckily it only rips off a couple of strips of his back flesh when it swoops down with claws outstretched.

Greeting us on the other side (after 50km uphill and +1000m elevation gain) is the breathtaking Cuesta de Miranda. It’s yet another marvel of argentino road building and an opportunity to reap the reward of the morning’s considerable climbing effort.

Coasting down the sweeping curves and precipice roads I play Bonobo, and at one moment reach a level of serenity that’s rare on even this spectacular journey. I spot Jake a few hundred metres below, racing across a ledge in the next vertical rock wall, going from right to left in my vision as I speed from left to right. As the violins kick in, it looks like he’s transcending dimensions; hair rippling in the wind, the sight of pure and meaningful freedom. I have been difficult to support in recent days so it must be a release for him to travel so unflinchingly fast; balance and brakes the only thing it’s possible to focus on.

Press play below, violins (I think) at 2:45. Goosebumps all over.

At nightfall in Chilecito, after we find a bohemian grotto to camp in, I have a mild panic attack. I’ve only experienced something similar once before in my life. This time I have a single, invasive thought that attacks my conscience and won’t let go, harrying my brain until my breath shortens and it becomes impossible to think straight. I lie down, take my time and then wander over to let Jake and Nicole know. Nicole hugs me tight,

“Hold on and don’t let go,” says Jake.

I’m so grateful to be travelling with these two.

We go out for dinner to wipe that bad memory away. There’s rare aubergine and burgers and chips to be had in the restaurant.

It’s less than 100km to our red wine celebration tomorrow night.

Pagancillo to Chilecito (GPX 103km)

Cuesta de Miranda (Source: http://turismo.municipalidadchilecito.gob.ar/cuesta-miranda/)

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Día 45 Malbec Anarchists

The ʽguess-the-length-of-the-road’ game is possibly the most radical, complicated and downright fascinating game you will ever play. Borne out of draining hours on Spanish highways last summer, it consists of spicing up a straight road journey by guessing how far away the curve on the horizon is. That’s it.

I told you it was good.

For this morning’s road, Jake guesses 2.8km and I go for 3.5km. When we reach the corner my watch reads 9.5km; a monstrosity of a straight line route. We were miles out. In fairness, looking back now, we watch cars travelling at 60mph and barely moving; we should have gone bigger with our guesses.

On our lightweight, Daft Punk-supported set ups, we cruise the distance in dry conditions, stopping when we come across a tourer with a very bulky rig. His bike looks like one of those lorries carting an entire house down the A36. He could talk for Argentina, perhaps for the entire continent, so I take it with a pinch of salt when he claims to have halved his weight back in Mendoza. Is that even possible? His bike would have been heavier than Thor’s hammer. On each side.

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Soon Nicole is with us for Sunday lunch in Famatina. A pizza that didn’t look on the cards on arrival in a dusty, quiet plaza is promptly dispatched. A strange 2L bottle of Fanta is also glugged (to our eternal discredit). Nicole has also found us some great snacks and healthy vegetable ingredients to chuck in the van and transport on to the reservoir. Van support is a system beyond the wildest dreams of touring cyclists used to balancing bread, biscuits and spaghetti in whichever nook of the bike isn’t covered in mud or unwashed boxers. We are in debt to her logistical support.

It’s another afternoon spent steadily rising 50km, aiming for a gap in two mighty ranges, Sierra de Famatina and Sierra de Velasco (the latter presumably named after our self-important Spaniard from paragraph 1). We do get the reward of a 30km downhill once we’ve reached the summit, so I’m not complaining.

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The Chañarmuyo site is but a kilometer walk from the reservoir edge, and our eyes are wide for winetasting. It’s a Sunday and the bodega³ tour is not running, but after sending some WhatsApp messages with everything crossed, Jake’s suspicion proves correct: wine tasting is still on.

After a quick spaghetti dinner we head off with red wine teeth already developing in pure expectation of what is to come.

After sleeping in dusty rock deserts in recent days, our minds are confused by the plush surroundings of the reception room: low cream sofas, antique armchairs, elegant coffe tables, classic literature and a cosy fire. Sinatra tunes fill our ears and the overall effect is one of a grand living room in the run-up to La Navidad (Christmas). It’s not exactly a home from home, but it certainly feels like a place that could serve up some high quality cheese (unlike Pagancillo).

We strike gold when we ask for a tasting in English because the only available sommeliers are the owners themselves, Gaby and Jorge. For the next few hours, as bottle after delicious bottle is decorked and allowed to breathe, we’re taken under the wing of our distinguished hosts.

The vineyards of Chañarmuyo are young, only around twenty years old, but Jorge hopes to become a larger player on the international wine scene in future. One of the issues is that Europeans associate Malbec with Argentina, and it’s very difficult to sell other grape varieties when such a market has been established. Sauvignon, Chardonnay and Syrah are also grown here, but the world has yet to recognise their prowess. If the opinion of a sweaty, grubby bikepacker is of any use, I’m happy to go on record saying they were all bloody lovely.

Gaby tells stories of her four adult children who are now spread far and wide across the world; three on different continents and one in the capital, Buenos Aires, some 1200km from the powerful Riojan sun. She clearly misses their presence so we are happy to play the role of surrogate offspring for the evening, delighting in the luxury of our comfy chairs, welcoming hosts and ever more delectable vino. We’re taught to swill, to smell, to taste, to test the transparency with a napkin and to note the changes in flavor after ten minutes resting (I didn’t think that would make a difference but it really, really did).

We already felt relaxed and warm before the arrival of the ‘crazy’ aunt Marina.

She sweeps into the room to comical protests from Gaby “Oh no! Not the crazy aunt, we can’t leave her alone with you”.

But in our tipsy state we’re soon telling stories of our continental adventure and waxing lyrical about how we want to build a different world to the one we’ve inherited. Jake explains his support for anarchism and his distaste for state-wide solutions to problems that can be more easily solved by local communities. This earns him enthusiastic support and a big kiss on the head from Marina.

“We LOVE that. We love to see young people who want to change the world because it really needs changing.”

Gaby shows pictures of her single daughters to Jake who is forced to admit in front of Nicole that they are very beautiful.

“Come and sit over here next to me please,” says Nic, half-joking. Jake quickly complies.

I’m the pointed out as the single one and can soon be found doing a piroutte on camera, apologizing for the unruly state of my beard. Marina had requested this performance and sends a video off to LDN to one of Gaby’s daughters.

“Don’t worry, we’ll say great things to her about you.”

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After a (perhaps overly) warm goodbye to people we’d just met, we weave back to the van and tent in high spirits, talking, laughing, and maybe stumbling a bit.

Later, Nicole makes purple rain from the side door. I’m aware of a noise a few hundred meters away but mainly I’m enjoying a quiet moment plugged into boygenius’ new album as I stare out at the gentle ondas⁴ on the reservoir.

It’s a superb record for embracing deep emotions and ultimately, for healing.

Drag racing through the canyon
Singing "Boys Don't Cry"
Do you see us getting scraped up off the pavement?
I don't know why I am

The way I am
Not strong enough to be your man
I lied, I am
Just lowering your expectations

Chilecito to Chañarmuyo (GPX 96km)

2 days. 2650m climbing. 11 hours cycling.

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The story so far

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Instagram | Komoot

Odometer: 46 Tours. 221 hours. 3,688km. 38,060m

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Previous post:

1. La Rioja Wine https://www.wine-searcher.com/regions-la+rioja

2. Avena = oats

3. Bodega = wine cellar

4. Ondas = ripples